Ever After
by Arwana13
Summary: 5 years after the divorce, a burnt house brings Francis Bonnefoy and his son Alfred, to the home of their remaining two family members. However, nothing is as it seems. How far will Matthew go to ensure his lonely father the ever after that he deserves?
1. Chapter 1

**Meesa no own Hetalia**

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_**Desperate Measures**_

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Alfred frowned when he saw the house in front of him. "Do we _have_ to stay here, Papa?" the American questioned his elder.

Francis sighed. "_Oui_, I'm afraid so, _mon cher_," he replied. "I do not like this anymore than you do, but Kirkland has been extremely kind to let us stay here. So, I want you on your best behavior while we're here, _oui?"_

Alfred pouted before replying, "But do I _have to _be nice to Jerkland?"

The Frenchman sighed in frustration."Alfred," he said warningly.

"Fineeee," the American sulked.

Francis smiled at the pouting 15-year old before running a gentle hand through his son's blond hair. "Don't worry," he promised, "most likely, Kirkland will only be here for a week or so."

"Hmm?" Alfred said in a questing tone, raising a ('Mercifully thin,' Francis thought) eyebrow. "Why is that, Papa?"

Resisting the urge to coo at how cute his son was when he called him 'papa', the Frenchman replied. "Even when we were married, he was gone away most of the year. Mostly book signings and things like that, but you know, every time he came back, I always found…."

Seeing his fathers face quickly becoming pained at the past memories, Alfred hurried to reassure him. "It's alright, Papa, I understand. Besides," he concluded, "dealing with the princess that he calls his son will be trouble enough."

"Alfred," his father reproached. "That's your brother that you are talking about."

"Yeah,so?" came the nonchalant reply.

Shaking his head and grabbing the last bag out of the car, Francis strode down the pathway leading up to the fairytale-like cottage. 'And inside it,' a voice inside his head reminded him, 'there lives a witch.' Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he glanced behind his shoulder to see Alfred still there, looking at the garden which surrounded the house in disgust. Gaining courage from the way his (cute) son's nose was (cutely) scrunched up, he raised a fist and knocked at the door.

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On the opposite end of the house, Matthew Williams shrieked when sudden raps made him jump and bang his head against the kitchen counter, disrupting the _soufflé _that he had been making. His lips curling in disgust at the ruined concoction, he threw the dish in the garbage before going to open the door for the perpetrators of the _soufflé_'s death.

If anyone had bothered to look inside the trash bin, they would have noticed a perfect _soufflé_ sitting inside of it, its appearance marred only slightly by the excess of icing sugar that had accidentally fallen on its top.

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Alfred readied himself to ram into the door, ignoring the gestures from his father to stop. 'Really,' he thought, 'it's the princess's own fault if he's too busy painting his fucking nails to open the goddamn door.' As he prepared to use his entire 119.5 pounds (of pure muscles, mind you) the door swung open. He yelped and dropped on his butt as cold violet eyes (eerily similar to a certain commie's) peered at him in disgust.

Matthew sneered at his _brother_ (impatient little fuck that he was) and smiled slightly when he dropped on his ass. That expression changed ('So quickly that the princess _must_ take acting lessons,' thought Alfred viciously as he reached down to rub his sore ass) to one of complete concern. "Alfred!" he cried looking _so fucking upset_ that for a second Al actually believed him. "Oh, I'm so sorry! Did I hurt you?" he questioned worriedly.

'You fucking well know you did, you prissy little_ bastard_,' somehow got translated on its way from his mind to his mouth to, "Oh, not at all."

"That's good," Matthew smiled at his fallen _brother_. "I apologize if I seem a little…untidy," he spoke again, this time primarily to his father. "I was not expecting you until at least another hour." Translation-I thought that I would have some more time to prepare myself to not knock your teeth out before you arrived. "Oh please, do come in," he added, as though he only just realized that they were standing outside his home with nearly ten bags.

Alfred gritted his teeth. What an unherioc, prissy, stuck up little_ bastard._

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Francis pushed in the house curiously, stalling only to give his prone son a hand and to grab their bags. So this was where his _darling_ (look up: antonyms) little ex-husband and son lived. To be fair he….did _not_ expect this.

Every inch of the living room was covered in a beautiful warm orange wallpaper that glowed as though it were lit by a soft flame. Adding to the effect was the flame blue couch and the blue irises that were kept on the vase on top of the glass table. There were only a curious few pictures that decorated the walls of the room, most of them showing his son-Matthew, he reminded himself, Matthew with Kirkland in exotic locations. He recognized the Sphinx, the Opera house, the Taj Mahal and…where the hell was that?

He was unaware that he had said the last sentence out loud until Matthew replied, "Oh that! Those are the umm…trulli villages in the south of Italy. They had the most amazing architecture and I couldn't resist just filling up the entire camera film with their photos," he laughed sheepishly.

"Uh-huh," Francis replied, unable of finding anything else to say at the moment. "Well," he spoke, gathering himself, "you have a truly beautiful home, Matthew."

Giving a toothy smile, Matthew replied, "Thank you, Monsieur Bonnefoy." Recognizing the sudden pain in his heart, Francis remembered that, yes, Matthew had been almost fluent at French before the…incident.

He was startled out of his stream of thought by Matthew suddenly saying, "Oh yes, allow me to show you your rooms during your stay here."

"That would be awesome," the sudden voice of Alfred from the doorway made the two occupants of the room jump. "But before that," the American spoke, "I was wondering, could I get a glass of coffee or something? I'm famished."

"Yes, of course," Matthew jumped up to go the nearby kitchen.

Francis could only feel a moment of trepidation as his sons bright blue eyes darkened and turned to the photos as soon as their host left. "South of Italy, my fucking ass…"

"Alfred!" Francis cried, exasperated. "What have I told you about using those words? Especially in another persons home!"

"I don't fucking care," his son hissed. "Besides, didn't Kirkland say that this place had soundproofed rooms?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "Still," he chided the younger, "it isn't very nice to insult your host."

Alfred snorted. "Well, the rules don't apply when your host is a fucking bastard. I mean, look at this shit," he hissed, gesturing at the walls. "While you hadn't showered your hair for _months_ this bastard went for a round-the-world tour?"

"Everyone has their methods of coping, Alfred," Francis sighed. "Some cry, someone have a fashion disaster. And some frigid ice-picks take the round-the-world trip way."

Huffing, Alfred spoke, "Amen to that."

Neither father nor son noticed the gap that the door connecting the otherwise soundproofed room to the kitchen.

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Matthew's hands stilled as the words 'frigid ice-picks' came floating through the gap. With trembling fingers, he put the coffee mugs down, glancing at the top most shelves in the kitchen, where gifts from his _family_ lay hidden.

A voice, sounding surprisingly like a certain _cook's_ rang in his mind. 'The concoction is colourless, odourless. It can't even be detected by the police. Just a couple of drops, and the victims immediately…'

He shook his head. No, he couldn't do _that_. More than half of his _family_ would kill him if he made them loose the bet they had made about him keeping his guests alive through their stay.

As he sighed and began to leave the kitchen, something shiny caught his eye. He smirked maliciously. Now _that_ was never included in the bet. It's not a little extra sugar would kill his guests.

'Frigid ice-pick, huh? Funny that he would use that comparison. After all, ice was the toughest to break. It was, however, even harder to re-form.'

With his mouth set in determination, Matthew Williams grabbed his last…_surprise_ and swept out of the room.

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"Sorry that I'm late," Matthew's voice rang out, making Alfred and Francis look up from the couch that they had settled on. "I'm afraid that I had some trouble locating some…_ingredients_."

"That's alright Matthew," Francis immediately spoke. "You didn't have to….is that..?"

"Oui," Matthew spoke, his smile all teeth. "I apologize if it is a little cold. I only had time enough to make one, you see, before you came."

"No, no, it's quite alright," Francis reassured. "Alfred and I do not have a problem sharing, do we?"

As his brother gave his assent and the two broke down on the _soufflé_, Matthew's smile widened, violet eyes glimmering. "_Bon appetite," _he murmured.

Frigid ice-pick indeed.

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**Phew. No idea where that came from.**

**Edit- My page breaks did not work. Again. FML. T_T**

**Quick question, how many of you have a basic knowledge of Katekyo Hitman Reborn?**

**Quick question 2-How do you put page breaks?**

**Hope you liked it. And remember, reviews make the world go round. (Thanks to those two reviewers. I swear to Chaos, this will not be one of those super deep fics. You actually need talent to write those. Again, FML)**

**Until next time,**

**Arwana13**


	2. Chapter 2

Celebrity Status

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_When the mirrors and the lights and the smoke clears,_

_I'd never guess how we ever could have got here._

_You can say what you say when the lights go down._

_So shake, shake, shake;_

_And Shut Your Mouth!_

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Lovino Vargas, contrary to popular belief, did not hate his life. Sure, he was always overlooked and then there was that 'rumor' of him being in a gang…but still, he was pretty happy. Everyone didn't _need _to act like he was going to shoot up the school _all _the time. But sometimes, he _really_ wanted to kill someone. Now was one of those times.

"No shit, really?" annoying jock No. 1 spoke.

"Yeah, dude. _Really,_" the _ever-so-eloquent_ voice of Alfred-Douchebag-Jones rang out in the classroom, grating Lovino's ears and making him want to cut the hamburger eating bitch's voice box out.

"Oh dear," said Prima-bitcharina, laying a hand on Alfred's arm, batting her eyelashes. "I feel _so _sorry for you, Al," she murmured, in what was supposed to be a sexy voice, but came out more like a rat's squeal to Lovi's ears.

Sighing dramatically, the blond spoke. "Well, I suppose I had to deal with the princess one time or another right?"

"That's the spirit, Al!" dumb-fatass-jerk-who-liked-to-pretend-that-he-was-straight spoke. "Besides, if he ever bugs you too much, we could just pay him a little…visit," he added suggestively, flexing his (non-existent) muscles.

"Nah," Alfred denied casually. "You know, with my dad around, I can't exactly beat the guy up anymore. If dad sees it, I'm screwed."

"Tough luck, Al," another fangirl consoled him. "You know that we are all rooting for you."

Flashing a 100 watt smile at the now salivating girl, the jock muttered a small 'thanks' before looking once again to the front of the class, where their teacher had just entered. Lovino felt his lip curl in disgust at the shameless behavior that the _slut_ was showing. He looked around the classroom and found himself unable to identify his 'invisible' friend's presence. He was _never this late._

Which is why, when Matthew Williams walked in the class, an entire 30-minutes late, and handed the teacher a small note which granted him entry without the customary lectures (not that he needed it, the well-mannered little bastard,) Lovino watched him like a fucking _hawk._

He was limping, Lovino noted, as he came to sit on his usual seat near the Italian, ignoring the vicious glares and curses that his normally ignorant classmates shot at him. As the blond settled down ear him, Lovino casually rested his head on his hand, an eyebrow raised in question even as the violent Italian gazed ahead at the teacher. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Matt give an inconspicuous glance at Alfred and his entourage and immediately understood.

Matthew wondered how long it would take for the period to end so that he could bandage the wounds that his 'brother's' (stupid, massive, fucking gorilla-like) 'friend' had given him.

Lovino wondered if papa Reborn would be interested in setting a new sniping record by taking a new hit (preferably, a brainless, blonde, bastard.)

Alfred wondered why his (shitty, bitchy, _girly_) brother was interacting with the violent Italian who was in the mafia.

The teacher watched two of his best students talk (so discretely that he couldn't even punish them) and his class' leader (honestly, no matter _how_ good that boy was at football, his grades were all over the place!) watch them and wondered why no paid attention to anything he said anymore.

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"Bozos. Bitches. Bastards."

"Roma, what _are_ you doing?" Matthew said with amusement shining in his eyes as Lovino bandaged his arms. The pale skin was decorated in scars and bruises.

Lovino shrugged. "Nothing. You know, just brainstorming some words. Hmmm…let's see if you can guess what they're about. Brats, bugs, buttfucks-"

"Bonnefoys," the Canadian interrupted smoothly, his eyebrow scrunching up. "Lovi…please don't."

Widening his eyes in faux innocence, the Italian spoke, "Please don't what?"

Matthew sighed. "I know that look, Lov. You're planning on getting the guy back."

"Of course I am!" Lovino snarled. "Look at what he did to you!"

"Because it doesn't matter!" the Canadian snapped. Seeing that his friend was about to interrupt, he hurriedly spoke, "Look, Roma, I only need to deal with this crap for some time. After their house is rebuilt and they're back in that shithole, I'll be free."

Lovino sneered. "So what, in the mean time you'll just- bend over?!"

"No," Matthew corrected. "In the mean time, I'll play hockey, make pancakes, avoid the house and try to make their stay a living hell."

Lovino looked at his friend with something indiscernible in his eyes. "The living hell could be arranged," he said, his voice suspiciously soft.

"Lovi, _no,_" Matthew spoke, his voice exasperated.

Lovino looked down at his friends' damaged hands and stroked them. "It hurts you to be near them, Matteo. Sure, you put on the entire tough, I'm-a-Canadian-I-wrestle-polar bears-and-play-hockey act but….it hurts you."

Matthew raised an eyebrow. "So? I'm not going to drop dead because of some sticks, stones _or_ words, Roma."

Lovino sighed."You're _family_, Matt. We protect our own, remember? The last time your lard-ass brother acted like this, I couldn't-I couldn't protect you," he murmured, gently going down to press his lips against pale, straight scars which adorned his brother's wrist.

Matthew flinched. "Roma…" he muttered uncomfortably. "I was weak then, alright? Weak and stupid." A pale, calloused hand rested on Lovino's cheek. "You woke me up, Roma."

Amber eyes looked up, meeting amethyst; earnest, wide. The Italian sighed. "Just…don't do anything like that again, okay? You don't know how scared I was. I thought that…I thought that I was going to lose you."

"I promise not to do that again," Matt agreed.

"Good."

Silence filled the empty washroom before the Italian broke it. "I got the song ready."

"The one that we finished on Friday?" Matthew questioned.

"Yeah," Lovino said. "It sounds pretty fucking awesome."

The Canadian stood up from where he was sitting on the counter."Hmm…I tell you what, tomorrow, we'll go over to the studio and post it."

"Why wait?" the dark haired boy spoke.

A frown appeared on Matthew's face. "Because, Roma, today is your grandfather's _birthday_. You know, the one that _every_ family member tends to attend."

Lovino scoffed. "Feli has prepared several songs, several paintings and several dance routines. I doubt my presence will be missed."

The blond winced. "Roma…"

Said boy raised an eyebrow, daring him to say anything.

"Fine," the Canadian agreed. "I'll meet you at the studio at about…5-ish?"

Just as the Italian nodded his assent, a shrill bell rang throughout the building. The two boys began to pack up all the medical equipment lying around and a clove-scented room-freshener was somehow produced from the Italian's bag and sprayed to get rid of the smell of iodine. "Always be prepared," Lovino said, seeing Matthew's raised eyebrows.

Matthew gave a small laugh. "Oh, yes," he agreed. "Constant vigilance!"

Laughing once more and ducking to avoid the Italian's hand as it came down to hit him, the Canadian spoke. "You know, just because _your_ family can't get involved in this, doesn't mean mine can't."

An image flashed in Lovino's mind of very strong, very muscled and very scary men, with blades on their feet and hockey sticks in their hands. He appraised the Canadian before declaring slowly, "I…have raised you well, minion mine."

With identical evil smirks the two swept off.

Hell hath no fury like a hockey team scorned. Especially if you just fucked with their Captain.

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"_Fils?_" an accented voice spoke. "Where are you?"

"Here, papa!" Alfred called from his position on the bed that was there in his temporary room. The Frenchman appeared on the doorway, looking haggard, but pleased.

"_Bonjour, cher," _the long haired blond spoke, coming to kiss his son on his forehead.

"Hey, there, Pops," Alfred replied. "Busy day?"

"Ugh," Francis grunted, popping his knuckles and then his neck, "you would not believe how hard it is to resist the temptation to hit some people some time."

Alfred scoffed. "Oh believe me, I would," he muttered lowly, a smug grin and a stupid curl coming in his mind. Seeing his father's amused face, he amended, "Some of the guys, you know, when we're playing. They just don't understand the meaning of 'pass the goddamn ball!'"

"Mhmm, sure," Francis replied, amusement colouring his tone. "That would indeed be _very _frustrating."

The awkward silence was broken by Francis' chuckles. Taking pity on his red-faced son, he asked, "So, how was school, _cher_? Temptation to punch aside."

Ignoring his father's last sentence, the American excitedly spoke, "Some of the hockey guys beat up one of my teammates today!"

"Oh _Dieu!_" Francis exclaimed. "Was he okay?"

"Well," Alfred spoke, puffing his chest out, "When I saw them doing that, I went to stop them, obviously."

"_Mon_ hero," Francis smiled, stroking Alfred's hair. "What happened after that?"

"Um, well," Alfred said, licking his lips, suddenly hesitant, "they, uh….kinda told me to piss off or they'd give me swirly to remember?"

"Ouch," the Frenchman winced.

"Yeah," Alfred agreed. "Those guys are _terrifying_."

For a moment father and son sat in comfortable silence before Alfred's phone let off a trilling sound. "Ohh, someone updated something," the boy spoke eagerly, reaching for the device on his bedside. Once he saw the update he squealed (a manly squeal, he would later insist.) "Oh, hell yes!"

Francis, still recovering from his sons (cute) squeal went on hesitantly. "_Cher?"_

"_Fantasma Ruines_ just released a new single!" his son said, waving his phone underneath the Frenchman's nose.

"Oh," Francis recalled. "The duo that your generation is addicted to? The one that always wears those burnt masks?"

"Uh-huh!" Alfred spoke, nodding his head like a bobble head doll. "And the thing is, we have every reason to be! I mean, these guys compose and record their own music, write their own lyrics-heck, they even do their own backup vocals!"

"That _is_ impressive," the Frenchman conceded. "But is it safe to just post their songs online like that and not get them through a record-label or something?"

"Yeah, well," the jock spoke, "They're associated with this Italian company, Vonoodle or something. The last time someone tried to steal one of their songs, he had to move to Cuba. Permanently."

"I see."

As though a bulb went off in his head, Alfred exploded. "I know! Watch this with me Papa. Please, please, please?"

"Oh _cher_," Francis chuckled, "you know I cannot resist you when you talk like that." Settling comfortably on the bed, the Frenchman reached around the cheering boy and grabbed the mobile, hitting the play button.

"_Look around, round…"_

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As music filled the house, Matthew Williams removed his wrist from his mouth, finally letting out a heavy breath from his location in the hallway. Then, as the situation hit him entirely, his eyes went wide.

"Oh fuck."

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**There you go! I don't own Hetalia or Marianas Trench, but in this fic, **_**Fantasma Ruines**_** owns several of their songs. Jokes aside, Celebrity Status belongs to their (lovely) asses.**

**As for **_**Fantasma Ruines, **_**it means Phantom (Italian) Ruins (French.) I thought that this would be a good name for their band.**

**Katekyo Hitman Reborn is an anime where a hitman comes from Italy to train a wimpy Japanese kid to be a kickass mafia boss. The 'family' mentioned in this fic was the mafia family that the kid is the boss of.**

**There will be no Romanada in this fic, they're just **_**very**_** good friends. FrUk and AmeCan are what I had in mind.**

**Yes, I know they're brothers. I'll explain how that works in the next chapter. Hopefully.**

**I just got a new laptop with keys that I don't need to stab to make work. So, hopefully, I'll update **_**Sacrifice **_**and maybe even **_**Of Love and Lies**_** again soon.**

**So, until we meet again, review, follow and favorite!**

**With love to spare,**

**Arwana 13.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Acadia_

* * *

_...but the rest is forgotten,_

_Behind me, _

_Sometimes it reminds me, _

_Of when we, _

_We used to,_

_Belong here..._

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"Alfred and Francis are both major fanboys!"

Lovino blinked. He did it again. Then, he looked at the clock nearby, only to see a '1:30 a.m.' glaring at him in neon green. A terrific yawn ripped loose from his mouth as he sat up, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sleepiness. "Matt, it's too late for this bullshit."

"Oh," the voice at the other end sounded guilty. "I'm sorry Lov. Go back to sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning, okay?"

A curse flew from the mouth of the Italian as the guilt of not giving the Canadian what he wanted started to settle in. 'Curse that manipulative fucker!' As he heard the tell-tale sounds of his friend getting ready to keep the phone down he spoke up, "Don't you _dare_ keep this phone down now, Matthew."

The noises at the other end stopped. Lovino only ever called him Matthew when he was _pissed_.

Said brunet smirked as though he could see the blonde gulping. "Now _darling_," he purred. "Tell me everything. _Slowly._"

Matthew took an audible breath. "Okay, so I came home after the entire studio business and Al was in his room with Francis."

"Always knew he was a pedo," the Italian snorted.

Matt crinkled his nose. "Ew. No. Bad, _bad _mental images that I did _not _need."

"You should have thought of that before waking me up at this unholy hour."

The Canadian giggled. _He fucking giggled_. "Unholy hour? Watching too many crappy comedy shows again, Roma?"

"Shut your mouth, Williams," Lovino ordered, "And say what you have to say."

"Alright, alright," the blonde grumbled. "I heard music from the room, so I went to see if my brothers music taste was as retarded as his mind."

"And?" Lovino was getting impatient.

"He was playing our new song."

Lovino's slouching spine snapped straight. _"Say what?"_

"Yeah," the hockey player replied breathlessly. "So, I ended up staying outside his room for an hour or so, because when Francis heard one of our songs, he ended up wanting to hear all of them! And, now, they are both in so deep, that they would sell their souls if we asked them to!"

Silence from the other end.

"Roma?"

"Fuck this shit," Lovino snapped, falling back boneless on his bed. "I quit."

He could practically _see_ the blonde's eye widening in panic. "You can't!"

"Why the fuck not?" the quick tempered Italian snarled. "I have fatasses listening to my babies, Matt. _Fatasses_ and _pedos _listening to my _babies_ and probably _desecrating _them by singing along in those horrible voices of theirs!"

"I know." Matthew's voice was soothing. "But think of what we could do with this!"

"Have a legitimate to reason to snap and sew everyone's mouths shut?" he suggested wildly.

"Well," the voice at the other end stops for a second. "We _do_ have that," he murmured, mostly to himself than anyone else. "But anyway," he said, completing the train of thought he was following earlier, "I'm saying that, with this, we could completely _destroy _them!"

Matt smirked as he hears silence on the other end, knowing that he has his friend hooked. The smirk only widens when Lovino says, "Aright. I'm listening."

"Okay," the blonde said, grinning maniacally. "You've actually used this technique before. You know, that time when your family left you behind when they took that trip to Spain?"

Lovino raised his eyebrows. "You mean when I wrote _Say Anything?_"

The Canadian nodded enthusiastically before remembering that the other could not see him. "Yeah, exactly."

"Matt, that plan was an epic fail, remember?" the brunet spoke, furrowing his brows. "I mean, sure those bitches ended up taking me with them, but at the end of it all, it was just the same as any other shitty trip."

"That's because your family is full of idiots," Matthew scoffed. "They didn't even notice when you went on that mission for the _familgia_ last year and didn't turn up for _three fucking months_. And here I thought _I_ was supposed to be the invisible one."

For a minute or two, there was silence. Matt didn't worry though, they always agreed on these facts. And sure enough-

"Huh. I guess you're right." And then- "So _that's_ your plan? Beat them on the head with angsty lyrics in angsty songs until they are on the floor crying for mercy?"

"Yep," the blonde replied happily, as if he wasn't planning the imminent torture of his family. "It's going to be _beautiful."_

A yawn erupted from the other boy's mouth. "Alright, now I'm going to go to sleep."

"M'kay. Bye Roma."

"Wait."

"Hmmm?"

"If you found this out during the evening...why the fuck did you wait till fucking 1 to tell me this shit?"

"Hehehe...I've...alreadystartedtowritethenextsong?"

"Tch. Overworking idiot. Go the fuck to sleep."

"Yes, captain."

"Stop with that shitty nickname."

"Yes, captain."

"I fucking hate you."

"I, too, am terribly in love with you. Captain."

"Go die in a ditch."

"If that is what my captain wishes, I will do so."

"Hmm...come to school naked tomorrow."

"...pervert."

* * *

Matthew rubbed his eyes to rid himself of sleep. 'One more line. Just...one...more..._line..._'

Just as that precious land of sleep was about to make him a citizen, a soft melody of _'Bohemian Rhapsody' _rung through the room. Matt's head jerked upwards, cursing as light illuminated mobile screen hit his eyes. He was still able to make out the small characters on top of the screen. _'2:30a.m.'_

'Well,' he thought as his hand shot out to grab the phone, 'Roma did it. He finally found a way to piss people off in his sleep.'

"Hello?" he spoke groggily.

"..."

Matthew's eyes widened. He quickly ended the phone call, tossing the mobile on his bed even as his legs scrambled out of the warm covers. Unmindful of the papers cascading down like goddamn confetti when he tossed them to remove the sheets, he hurriedly opened the door of his room and started to go down the stairs, skipping over half of them to reach down quicker. Controlling his breath as he finally reached the bottom of the structure ('Why do we have so many fucking stairs?), he took a few deep breaths before opening the main door.

A tired face gazed back at him, lighting up with a soft smile when the man standing out saw the teen's excited face.

"Sorry if I woke you up, poppet," Arthur Kirkland spoke, green eyes shining. Lifting his hands to show the bags that adorned his forearms, he asked, "Care to help an old man out?"

Matthew smiled, a _true_ smile, at seeing the only family member he gave a damn about. "C'mon dad," he said even as he took a few bags from his arms, "you aren't _that_ old yet."

Arthur just laughed.

* * *

Alfred rubbed his eyes, willing the vision in front of him to be a _really_ bad dream. Arthur Kirkland was sleeping at the kitchen table as his brother moved around him, humming happily as he made something that smelled delicious.

"What the fuck is this?" he asked, making the smaller teen turned around and glare at him. "What is _he_," he gestured towards the prone form, "doing here?"

Matthew's smile spoke of murder. "Well, you see, dimwit, when someone _owns _a fucking house, they generally stay in it. And also, could you keep it down? He arrived late and I _know_ that jetlag's a bitch."

Alfred's smile spoke of torture, making the slender blonde opposite to him raise a knife. "Don't you _dare-"_

**"GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!"**

The American fought to contain a snicker as the sleeping man jerked upwards, eyes linking rapidly. As he focused on the culprit, his eyes opened fully. "Oh, Alfred!" he exclaimed. "Sit down, sit down."

Alfred was about to tell exactly _where_ he could shove his seat when he remembered his father's words. 'Be kind to the man, _mon chou_. Even if you just want to cut those caterpillars off his face. And remember, he _is_ giving his residence while our home rebuilds. The French (and their American children) are always the _perfect_ guests.'

'Perfect,' the word echoed in his mind as he grit his teeth and made his way near the Englishman.

"Your tea, dad," Matthew said sliding a porcelain cup before the man.

Arthur's grin made Alfred feel sick. "Thank you, love." He sniffed the aroma wafting through the air, lifting a monstrous eyebrow. "Pancakes?"

"Yep," the imposter (it had to be, the bitch Alfred knew didn't smile that much) grinned.

"Great," Arthur spoke. "I've missed these works of art. No one quite makes them like you, darling."

Matthew blushed, furthering Alfred's belief of him being possessed.

"Have you ever tasted Matthew's pancakes, Alfred?" the Brit asked, turning to the boy.

Plastering a smile on his face (_fakefakefake)_, he replied, "Can't say I have sir."

A smile broke across the dirty blonde's face. "Well then, brace yourself. This should be a treat."

Footsteps could be heard descending the steps. "Ugh, _mon dieu._ What iz zis racket zis 'arly in ze morning?"

Francis appeared on the door of the kitchen, normally silky hair mussed with sleep. He was rubbing his eyes , accent made thicker by tiredness.

"Papa!" Alfred exclaimed happily. Francis turned his eyes to his son, freezing when he saw who he was sitting with.

No. No way. _Oh dieu_, why did that pig of a Englishman have to be at home now?

Arthur's eyes were unreadable, his smile gentle. "I see _you're _still not in a habit of getting up early."

'Alright Francis, calm. He's trying to make conversation, reply and _stay fucking calm_.'

"Unfortunately, not all of us can be night owls like you, _Arzur_," the chef replied, doing at internal happy dance at not having insulted his ex-husband at first word.

"Breakfast," Matthew spoke a little too loudly, setting down four plates on the table. Francis' eyes widened upon seeing the perfectly cooked pancakes on the plates.

"Did you make zis, _Matthieu?" _the Frenchman asked, settling down on an unoccupied chair near his son.

"_Oui._"

The four people took hold of their eating utensils and (after much maple syrup on someone's part) began to eat. Let's have a look at the four thought streams that followed, shall we?

Francis- "I refuse to believe that he can make such food after living with a man who can set water on fire. There is mischief afoot here. I can smell it."

Alfred- "Holy fucking shit. Screw everything I've ever said about him. He makes me food like this, I fucking _marry_ him.

...ew...that thought never crossed my mind."

Matthew- "I knew I should have poisoned that fucking _soufflé."_

Arthur- "I do believe that the impossible has happened. Matthew's cooking skills have improved. _Again."_

The Brit looked up from his pancakes, glancing at the faces of the people on the table. His heart ached when he looked at the faces of the two guests. Yes, he was happy that his family was back. No, he wasn't that it was under these circumstances. Smiling away the concerned look his son sent him (honestly, Matt was too cute for his own good), he dug in the delicious treat once more, closing his eyes and simply savouring the taste of _home._

He couldn't deny the pain that had settled in his heart, but he would not show it. He could do this. He had practice.

_'Be still, oh breaking heart of mine.'_

* * *

_"Arthur!" the excited Frenchman shouted._

_The boy who had been called looked up from where he was sitting on his porch, a copy of 'Of Mice And Men' in his lap. "What is it, frog?"_

_"Ah, my irritated little friend," Francis grinned, "I've finally done it!"_

_"Done what?" Arthur questioned dryly, "Gotten your brain examined? Good. You should have done that ages ago."_

_Francis plopped down near Arthur with a breathy laugh. "Nothing you can say can hurt me tonight, cher. For I have found true love!"_

_The Brit raised an eyebrow. "Just like the 'love' you had with Angelique? Or with Bella?"_

_"Oh, non," Francis replied, grinning stupidly. "This time, it is real."_

_The shorter blonde sighed. "That's is what you said _every_ time, Francis."_

_The Frenchman shook his head from side to side. "I mean it this time, Arthur. This one is special."_

_"You're 11 years old, Francis," the boy murmured, already engrossed in his book again. "Every one seems special."_

_Francis felt anger fill him at his friend's nonchalant tone. "I really mean it this time, Arthur."_

_"Mhmm..."_

_"I'm going to marry her."_

_"What?" the preteen exclaimed, looking up from the book._

_Francis' face had an angry look on it. "I said, I'm going to marry her. And if anyone gets in our way, I'll crush them."_

_Arthur understood the unspoken words. _

_'Even you.'_

_The small boy looked down for a minute or so. Then, he shut the book, putting it aside. Interlacing his fingers together, he looked up at the taller boy and asked," What is her name?" _

_Francis smiled, recognising this as an invitation to blurt his heart out. "It's Jeanne, and oh Arthur, she is so beautiful..."_

_Arthur smiled, hoping that it looked real. He unlocked his fingers and clenched them into fists, knowing that the other boy was too far gone to notice._

_'Be still, oh breaking heart of mine.'_

* * *

**Hey, guys. Sorry for the delay. The exams finished a couple of days ago and I just wrote this in like a hour or so. Hope you like it.**

**I would say that this is where the story really begins and that the first two chapters were just prologues. Anyway, tell me what you thought of the backstory. It isn't finished, obviously. There is still much to come about this family's fucked up past.**

**Anyway, thanks for the reviews, follows and favourites. Please leave some more. **

**I won't be able to update for some time because I'm going on a trip. So, until then,**

**With much love, **

**Arwana13**

**P.S.- Hetalia isn't mine.**


	4. Chapter 4

Low

* * *

You were the first to knock me down  
In a way I guess we're even now  
And I know I only used that first to justify  
But maybe that's not just a lie  
who knows

Little bit, little more, There's something missing  
I'm missing the point I did before

I'm sorry that I'm always the one to make you feel that burn  
And I feel so ashamed  
This used to be easy  
(I feel so low)  
But I want you to know  
That I won't let go again  
(I feel so low)

* * *

It was a fact acknowledged throughout the school, that a man who liked the student council meetings was the most boring being on the planet. 'And by god,' Alfred thought as he gazed at the broad back of one such (tall, muscular, German) man, 'they got that right.'

Not that anyone had the guts to tell Ludwig of his apparent boring-ness anyway.

Not that Ludwig would care anyway.

Still, it amazed the American that someone so smart could be so oblivious to the wad of paper being aimed at their head. Guess the dumb (fucking awesome) Italian he ran around _did_ rub off on him.

As though seeing the evil intentions that the American had for his friends in an evil cloud above his head(he probably _did_ have one), a foot _slammed_ into Alfred's, making him groan in pin and double over.

Ludwig paused mid-word the lecture and turned to look at the blonde. "Are you alright, Alfred?" he asked with an eyebrow raised in concern.

Before Alfred could reply, the Japanese sitting near him took over. "I'm afraid, Ludwig-kun, that Alfred-san is having a bit of a stomach ache," he said pleasantly, slowly crushing the Nike shoe beneath his foot with all the (formidable) strength in his petite frame.

The German noted Alfred's groan of pain and sighed. "Well," he spoke, "there is only some time left before the meeting ends. You should be able to hold on till then."

"Ve~! I'll sit with you, Alfredo!" Feliciano skipped over to his side of the table, cheerfully holding his hand, even as the person on the other side tried to dismember his foot.

Ludwig sighed again. "Let's just get this over with. " He looked around. "Does anyone have anything else to say?"

A hand rose in the air.

"Yes, Lovino?"

Putting his feet down from where they had been resting on the table, the Italian stood up, letting out a yawn. "Last week," he spoke, his voice still sleepy, "our hockey team received a message from another team in Russia. They have been challenged to a match and will leave today. That's all."

Alfred and Kiku stopped what had quickly turned into a footsies battle royale under the table to stare the brunet, who had already sunk back into his seat and laid his head down like he was about to go to sleep.

"W-wait just a minute!" Ludwig cried, flustered. "Who's paying for this trip? Who authorized this trip?"

The Italian opened his closed eyes to gaze incredulously at the German. "Who do you think, fuckface? The fucking Queen of the United Kingdom?"

"The school?!" Alfred rose up, forgetting his throbbing foot. "My boys can't go to fucking Texas for a championship and the hockey team gets to go to _Russia?_"

"Alfred, sit _down!_" Ludwig barked from the end of the table. "Where is the captain of the team? Why wasn't _he _here to tell us this?"

Lovino tilted his head, looking at the German as though he were crazy. "Because he has better things to fucking do?"

"Like _what?"_ Alfred sneered. "Paint his nails?"

Lovino gave the American a hard stare. "Fine," he said with finality, gathering his things and shoving them in his bag. "Fine."

"Ve~ Fratello, what are you doing?"

The Italian swung his bag on his shoulder."Going to tell the Principal that the team is no longer going to Russia." He turned to Alfred. "You brave, dumb bitch. Won't be coming to your funeral."

The blonde grabbed is arm. "What the fuck are you saying?"

Lovino ignored his question, choosing instead to say, "I assume that you'll break the news to Matt? Why am I asking, of course you will! Now," he hissed, coming alarmingly close to Alfred's face, "before I go to the uppers and tell them this, _you _are going to go to the hockey rink and tell Matthew exactly why he can't go and beat the shit out of the bitches who called his team 'a group of fat, idiotic failures that can't play hockey to save their lives' and who 'only win to luck on their part and dumbness on their opponent's.'"

Everyone in the room flinched. Feliciano let out a whimper.

Lovino yanked his arm out of the jock's grip. "Come and find me when you've done that."

* * *

"The bitch said wha...?"

"I know, right? I mean, I knew he was an idiot but this just takes the cake."

"I heard that you made him shit his pants near the end."

"...maaayyyybbbbeeeee?"

"...god, I fucking love you."

"Aww, you're such a cute shit. I love you too, babe."

"Can I ask you a favour, Roma?"

"Hm? Go for it."

"Okay, hear me out before you start screaming..."

* * *

Francis Bonnefoy came down the stairs rubbing his eyes to see the sight of his most hated enemy.

Well, shit. This wasn't going to be a good day, was it?

He looked around for any other life forms apart from the one slumbering on the table and soon brightened up when he saw his son coming down the stairs. "_Bonjour, mon petite."_

"_Bonjour, papa._" Came the reply from the half asleep boy. Francis chuckled and moved to ruffle his hair, causing the American to half-heartedly give his father a push. Both froze as the man on the table let out a small groan. Alfred looked past his father's shoulder and gave a moan when he saw the other.

"Jesus, doesn't this guy have a fucking bed?" he hissed out in annoyance. Francis gave a chuckle and opened his mouth to reply-

"Oh my god, how old are you? No, you don't need the pepper spray. How the fuck did you even get that? (A pause.) Jesus fuck, dude, I don't know where the fuck you heard that Russia is creep country, but if you get a gun- I don't _care_ if it's to 'defend my virtue', I will kneecap you with it. Comprende?"

The sound of a door opening startled them both and they simultaneously looked up as the sound of the last member of the household came down the stairs. Matthew came into view, balancing a phone between his shoulder and ear while tying the last laces of his shoe with the other, hopping on one foot. His eyes tightened when they came upon before skipping over and seeing his guardian on the table.

"Yeah, listen, Luk, I call you later, okay? Try and get Matthias and the others to pack sensible things. And whatever you do, _do not let Matthias near the axe._" He snapped the pone shut and moved down the stairs, nodding to them both as a greeting. "Francis, Alfred."

"Good morning Matthew," Francis greeted back.

"I should get started on breakfast," Matthew spoke, moving toward the stove.

"Ah, nonsense," Francis said shifting to block the teen's path. "Allow me to make some today."

* * *

Matthew dropped into a crouch near the sleeping man the moment they entered the kitchen. Francis and Alfred watched the two discretely as they both tried to make themselves look busy (cooking and playing angry birds are both very difficult jobs.)

A gentle hand carded through dirty blonde hair. Pale lips tugged into a smile when they spotted acid green eyes blearily opening up. "Matthew?" the man asked, accent thick with sleep.

"Hi, dad," the boy whispered back, making no move of stopping the gentle petting. He let out a small laugh when a laugh forced its way through the older man's mouth.

"What time is it?" the Brit asked sitting up.

Matthew stood up from his crouch and looked at the clock. "Near about 7:15."

"Mmm, I see." His head slammed back down on the table.

Matthew laughed again, shaking his head at the older man's antics. "What were you working on?"

"Oh, that." Arthur yawns fucking _again, _"Nothing big. Just going over a...treaty of sorts, for a friend of mine." He raises his head, resting on his chin, curious eyes following his son as he looked into the fridge.

"Hmmm..." Matthew pulls a dish out (cold apple pie, Arthur's favourite, Francis remembers), and holds it up with a flourish. "Did this friend of yours also tell you not to eat and sleep? Because it's not very good to remain in contact with hooligans who make you do their homework, dad."

A lazy smile stretches its way across Arthur's face. "Cheeky brat."

"This is what I'm afraid will happen when I'm gone." Matt sets the pie down on the counter, takes out two plates, a knife and begins carving. "But, no fear," he sighs happily. "I have the perfect remedy to keep _you_ on your toes...I think."

Arthur had risen up by now, his eyes narrowing. "What exactly does that-"

"Wow, Matt. 'I think?' Way to boost someone's confidence."

Francis, pressed near the stove, is the only one who can see the way Matthew _smiles, all teeth,_ before turning around with both the plates and setting them on the table. "Come in, Lovi! I cut you a slice."

"I'm already in, you bitch," the grumpy Italian spoke, sitting next to the rapidly paling Englishman with a thump. "Stop stating obvious things."

"You're leaving me with a babysitter?!" Arthur cried out, aghast.

Lovino gave him that _look_, the one that gave off the 'you're scum of the deepest sewer' vibe. "Well, aren't you going to be a charming host."

"I apologize, Lovino darling, you _know_ how I _love_ your comp-ACK!"

"Shut up and eat pie, bastard."

Francis looked at them all, Arthur sullenly chewing the pie that had been unceremoniously shoved in his mouth ('I would have eaten it myself, you know'), Lovino, looking like he owned the house ('You better have left me enough ice cream to last six day, dammit!) and Matthew, smiling like he'd never seen him smile before ('I've got your usual room set up, Lovi.'), and suddenly found his heart breaking all over again.

* * *

"Okay, spill it. You're not worried about him wasting out. You've left him alone in the house millions of times before. What is this about?"

"..."

"Matt?"

"I just...don't want him to be alone with those two..."

"..."

"..."

"I'll be there before 8."

"Thanks, Roma."

"Tch, whatever. There better be something good to eat!"

"Haha, I think I can handle that."

* * *

_'This kind of rain was Arthur's favourite,' was all Francis could think as he stared blankly ahead at the rock in front of him. It was a drizzle, not slow enough not to be dismissed, but not fast enough to be called a storm. Everyone had already left the graveyard. Everyone had already left __**him**_**.**

_Or so he thought._

_"Francis, what are you doing here?" the Frenchman looked up to see green eyes making his way towards him. "You're going to get soaked!"_

_Francis was silent for a moment, before wrapping his arms around himself. "I do not wish to leave her."_

_Arthur's eyes softened, but he remained steadfast. "You've been here for two hours already and everyone is getting-"_

_"I am __**not**__ going to leave her! Stop trying to drive us apart!"_

_The graveyard was silent save for panting as two pairs of eyes widened with that sentence._

_"Wh-what are you talking about?" Arthur's voice had gotten quiet.._

_"You never did like her, anyway..." Francis murmured looking like he had figured out some great mystery. "Your father was the one who was handled her case, qui?"_

_"F-francis please, I don't understand!"_

_"You probably __**told **__him to kill her." The thirteen year olds voice was vindictive. "Oh no," he said, voice going impossibly soft, "you probably messed with her medication yourself."_

_Arthur was outright sobbing now, tear streaming down his cheeks, reminding Francis of times before ("Who hurt you, lapin? Was it your brothers?") but he could not bring himself to care, not when he was so __**numb, **__so __**hurting**__, so fucking sure of the truth._

_"Please -hic- Francis, I-I didn't-"_

_"Do not touch me," he hissed, knocking the pleading hand out of his vision, "__**tueur.**__"_

_Murderer._

_As he watched the furious boy run out of the graveyard, Arthur collapsed in front of the stone, sobbing like a child._

_"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry..."_

_Here lies Jeanne_

_The Angel._

* * *

**I'm a piece of shit. I know. I've been so fucking busy, guys. I'll try to update more, but it will be slow.**

**I don't own Hetalia or any other song in this chapter.**

**Read and review, please. **

**Until next time, **

**Arwana13**

**P.S.- Keep in mind that these two are divorced. Meaning they were once **_**married**_**.**

**Just something to think about.**


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